by Mj Fields
She looks out the window and away from me.
When the car stops in front of the bar, I realize she’s not home yet.
After I get out, the driver peels away from the curb.
Asshole, I think as I flip him off, hoping he sees me doing so.
When she looks back, she seems surprised I’m standing there, and yes, her eyes tell me so.
“We told Lou we’d get his girl home, not drop her off at the bar at three in the morning.”
She points up. “Promise fulfilled.”
“You live above the bar?”
She looks at me skeptically before slowly nodding.
“Un-fucking-real,” I say, turning my back to her as I grab my phone out of my pocket and hit the app to get another car.
“What’s unreal?” she yells at my back. “That some female who doesn’t know you would be concerned about a man who seems hell-bent on getting his way, knowing where she lives?”
“I was wrong about you.” I shake my head, still waiting for the app to give me some options.
“I see,” I hear her whisper-hiss.
“Such bullshit! This app and you. Happy fucking birthday, Trucker,” I snarl as I push my phone back into my pocket and decide to walk my ass back to South Campus instead of sticking around here.
“Truth or tale?” she yells, stopping me.
I turn around and look at her. She looks confused and scared. I see it now—what I’ve been looking for behind those beautiful eyes mixed with blues and browns. She’s afraid to trust, and I totally understand it.
“Truth.”
“Do you want to fuck me or know me?”
Son of a bitch, I think, trying to find a way to say it without pushing away something so different than I have ever encountered before, someone who seems to mirror me.
“Which is it?”
“Both.”
She stands there, just looking at me, and a million questions appear on a face that tries to mask each and every one of them.
“Truth or tale?” I ask her now.
“Truth.” Her face contorts a bit like she’s shocked by her response.
“You feel something different, too?”
She closes her eyes, drops her head back a bit, and gives one sharp nod.
I’m seconds from snatching her up and taking her upstairs, but I’m not about to do that. I’m going to make damn sure she feels that need, that burn, for a few days at least.
“Good.”
She opens her eyes and just looks at me.
I see a yellow cab pulling down the road with the light on. It’s available.
Using every bit of self-control and then some, I nod. “See you around, Ray.”
I step out into the road and wave it down.
I walk around to the back of our townhouse and sneak into the back door, which happens to be right by my room. As I turn the nob, I hear Logan clear his throat.
I look over at him. He’s in a towel, clearly having just cleaned up after finishing with his girl.
“You okay?” he asks, toweling his hair.
I look at him and decide, no reason to lie. I shake my head.
He smirks. “Lou is gonna be pissed.”
“I didn’t touch the girl.”
“But you wanna.” He nods, and I nod back. “You’re fucked, man.”
“Like hell I am,” I assure him. “She’s gonna know we’re leaving here, heading for greater things. Won’t touch her until she gets it.”
“How you gonna do that without making her feel like she’s not good enough?”
Fuck, I think.
“I’ll get back to you.”
He nods then smirks, shaking his head as he disappears into his room.
It takes forever to fall asleep, because I haven’t a clue as to how to make sure I don’t hurt her, while making damn sure I don’t hurt myself either.
The next morning, when I’m showered and ready for the day, I walk out of the bedroom to see Logan standing at the counter with a cup of coffee.
“Not dressed to run,” he says before taking a sip.
“We have the weekend off,” I remind him.
“There’s no rest when you’re striving for greatness.”
I smile. “And we’re heading there.”
“I’m leaving in ten.”
I grab my cup and take a sip. Then I set it down. “I’ll be ready in five.”
After our run, we go to Wegmans grocery store, to grab food to prep for the week and beer for the team gathering tonight.
With two carts full of food and another nearly full of beer, we head to the checkout lane, when I realize I forgot water.
“We need a jug of water. I’ll be right back.”
I leave the carts with him in line and hurry to grab a refill for the water cooler. Turning the corner to the beverage aisle, I run into someone.
We fall in what seems like slow motion, thankfully giving me enough time to make damn sure I don’t flatten her against the hard floor.
We’re nose to nose on the grocery store floor, and her eyes are bigger than ever.
“Damn, Little Ray.” I laugh at the expression on her face. “Just can’t stop running into you.”
She clears her throat and pushes herself up.
“Well, fuck.” I hear Logan laugh behind her.
She stops in a seated position and looks behind her. “Well hello, Links.”
“Aw, she remembers me.” He smirks.
“Wasn’t sure it was you without a blonde mounted on your lap.” She shrugs and I can’t help but laugh.
“Like you are on my boy now?” He gives her shit.
She turns and looks back at me, as if she just realizing she’s straddling me.
Before she has the chance to get up, I sit up, ensuring we’re nose-to-nose again.
She lets out a little puff of air and pushes my chest as she gets up.
“You plan this?”
She looks down at her shirt, this time covered in coffee. Little braless nips protrude, saluting me again.
She hisses at them before crossing her arms over her chest. “Ridiculous.”
I correct her real quick. “Stunning.”
She shakes her head and tries not to smile.
“I’ll give you four a minute.” Logan laughs as he walks away.
I’m going to kick his fucking ass for noticing. Going to kill anyone else who does the same.
I look back at her, and she asks, “Four?”
“You, me, and your nipples.”
She palms her face. “Oh, my God.”
I reach behind her and pull out the hair tie holding back her hair in a ponytail.
“What are you doing?” She looks around as if she’s worried someone will see us.
I fuck with her hair to cover them up as I ask, “You with someone?”
She rolls her eyes and looks away from me.
“Truth, Ray.” I tug at the end of her hair I just fucked with.
“No, geez.” She bats my hand away, and I can’t help laughing. “Truth, your highness.”
“Here’s some truth for you, Ray; I don’t think fucking you will ever be a good idea. Every time I touch you, your eyes get this doe-eyed, pre-orgasmic look; your cheeks get this pretty little virgin pink blush; and—”
She looks around, stammering back at me, “Will you be quiet?”
“Oh, God no!” I yell.
She hits me in the stomach, fucking hard, too, and starts laughing.
I grab her hand and pull her closer to me. She doesn’t hit me, but the moment her chest hits my abs, I hear all the breath leave her lungs and feel it leave mine. Something shifts, and not just in my fucking pants.
That shift terrifies me, but it excites me at the same time.
I grab the back of her head and use my thumb to push her chin up so she’s looking at me. “I’m gonna kiss you.” I give her five seconds. Five full seconds to push me away. She doesn’t.
In the faintest voice, I hear h
er whisper, “Don’t hurt me.”
I kiss her softly, so fucking softly. I don’t even know if it’s actually considered a kiss.
Whatever it is, it just changed my life.
And that scares the fuck out of me.
Chapter Six
Knocked off my feet
Keeka
For nearly a week, I have floated through my days on cloud Trucker, and I’ve only seen him once. Saturday night, after he knocked me off my feet twice. Once literally, and the second time, he did so by way of a kiss. I’m not even sure anyone else would consider it a kiss, but I do. I so do.
When he came to the bar later that same day, he was with his friends, teammates, and was drunk. He didn’t even come up to the bar, but he watched me the entire night from a distance, and I felt like he was right next to me.
There were so many times I could have gone over to the table. So many times I could have used the bathroom at the same time he did. So many times I could have, yet I chose not to. I will never chase a man. I will never lose myself in a man.
Today, six days later, I lie in bed, relishing in the memory of my first kiss, my very first kiss.
I hear a knock on the door that startles me.
Looking at the wind-up clock on my bedside table, I see it’s nearly one in the afternoon.
I jump up and grab the nearest sweater off the chair beside my bed and throw it on before running to the door. And when I throw open the door, I find Reda.
“Hey, doll, it’s going to be insanely busy tonight. First home game. You think you could come down a couple of hours early?”
“Sure.” I nod.
She grins. “You ready for this?”
She’s told me how much money can be made, as well as how busy and rowdy the crowd can get.
“I’m actually pretty excited.”
“Phone not working?” she asks.
“Just haven’t added any minutes to it in a while,” I tell her.
“You need to borrow some money?” she asks. She always asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine, Reda. But thank you.”
“You’re working your little tail off, girl. I don’t get it.”
“Apparently, I’m bad with finances.” I make a joke out of the situation I’m in, because it’s easier than being honest about it.
“If you need anything—”
“I know, Reda.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “I’m overstepping again. Lou tells me all the time.”
When it seems like she’s about to hug me, I step back, causing her to look shocked.
“I’m sorry,” we say at the same time.
“I just—”
Her smile interrupts me, and then she says, “I’ll leave you to get ready.”
As I watch her walk down the stairs, I feel a bit ashamed for making her uncomfortable, because Reda and Lou have been amazing to me.
Taking a deep breath, I try to stop the shame from overtaking me, not wanting to be that girl ever again.
After showering, I warm up some Ramen in the microwave then get ready to face the post-game crowd.
The bar is crowded, and Lou has installed three new flats screens, adding to the four already hanging, so you can see the game wherever you sit.
Looking around, I see men and women, old and young, all of different races and social economical statuses. It’s beautiful to see them all sharing a common interest—the Syracuse Orangemen.
The love for the team is overwhelming, the comradery inspiring, and the excitement is contagious. Whenever number 21 passes a ball, they yell his name and cheer him on. Trucker Cohen.
Number 42, Logan Links, is the other crowd favorite. From what I have gathered, they attended a local high school together.
As busy as it is, I try to eavesdrop on conversations, wanting to learn about the game and the players, especially Trucker.
Football has never interested me. I could never sit and watch a game with Shakeeka’s sons without having a sketchpad on my lap to keep me entertained. I would draw, and they would cheer on UConn or Pitt, who I remember played against Syracuse because of Otto, or Lou, as I fondly remember him as. But here, with no way to distract myself, I kind of get swept up in the game. Not because it’s football, but because the comradery and the energy within these four walls. And truth be told, because of Trucker.
Holding a tray of draft beers, the most popular drink here today, I weave my way through the sea of Orange and deliver the drinks, just as the entire crowd erupts in loud applause, chanting, “Truck, Truck, Truck, Truck,” and some yelling “Keep on trucking!”
I look up at the TV to see number 21, Trucker, hasn’t passed the ball. He’s running it, and he’s fast, so incredibly fast. I see him jump over piles of men that number 42, Links, has knocked down like he’s paving the way for his friend and teammate to run to the end zone.
Passing number 42 and the ten-yard line, his speed seems to increase, and when he’s inside the end zone, he spikes the ball then reaches between his legs, adjusts himself, and the crowd goes wild.
Syracuse won their first game of the season, and apparently, Trucker is the reason. Links was the reason he made it as far as he did, though. He, too, should get credit. But, what do I know about football?
An hour after the game, the bar is nearly empty, which is perfect because I have to pee so badly that I’m dancing, and I don’t dance anymore.
After using the bathroom, I decide to straighten out the money in my apron, the one that reminds me of a fanny pack, even though Lou doesn’t think so.
When I count out three hundred and seventy-seven dollars, I begin to panic, wondering if I mistakenly placed money in the apron that was given to me from a drink order. I have made that kind of money here before on several occasions, but not in under four hours.
I walk out to the bar where Lou and Reda are sitting, eating nachos and discussing the game. I hate to interrupt them, but I have to. I need this job, this place to live, and if I screw it up here, I will be living under the 690 Bridge … again.
Standing on the opposite side of the bar, I look at Lou, who is listening to Reda talk. She’s always talking. When she looks at me, I blow out a breath. She nudges Lou to get his attention away from the local news playing highlights of the game.
“I think I screwed up.”
When his eyes narrow a bit, I pull out the wad of cash out of my apron and set it on the bar.
“Looks like you did a hell of a job,” he says, wiping his mouth, ridding it of the chicken wing sauce. Then he looks back at the TV.
“There aren’t any tickets in here for orders, but there’s a lot of money, Lou. A lot,” I continue. “So, if the drawer is short tonight, it may be my fault.”
He looks at me briefly, and then back at the TV. “Till’s fine. You made good money. Now grab me a beer.”
When Reda nudges him, he looks back at me, pushing the money back at me. “Please.”
I shake my head. “There’s no way I made this amount of money in under four hours.”
“She’s adorable,” Reda says to him.
“Yeah, she’s cute. Adorable if she gets me a beer.”
Smiling, I turn to grab him a draft.
“You should eat something, Keeka. If all goes well, in half an hour, our hometown heroes will be coming in tonight and bringing half the campus with them. You’ll make as much tonight as you did this afternoon.”
Holy shit. I think about what I can do with all the money.
Holy. Shit. I smile to myself when I think about seeing Trucker again.
I eat a chicken salad sandwich, and not because I’m hungry. I’m not. There’s a fight in my belly between the butterfly infestation and the nausea caused by not wanting to feel the way I do when I see him, hear him, or remember that kiss. I eat it because Reda made it for me, and honestly, if I wasn’t a mess right now, I would enjoy the best chicken salad sandwich I have ever eaten—Reda’s.
I close my eyes and touch my lip
s as softly as his touched mine. When I hear the bathroom door open, I open my eyes.
“You want some gloss?” Reda asks, setting her bag on the countertop and opening it.
I look in and see a whole drug store of tubes and compacts inside.
“I’m okay,” I say, turning the faucet on to wash my hands while watching her swipe mascara over her lashes, press powder to her face, and swipe red lipstick across her lips.
She looks at me as I watch her. “You sure?”
I shake my head. “I’ve never really used makeup. My mom used to say natural was the way to go.”
“I agree, but on special occasions, enhancing your natural beauty is fun.”
Ten minutes later, I’m looking in the mirror. My eyes look bigger, and my lips shinier.
“I wish I had your coloring.” Reda smiles. “Your skin is tan all year round, and those eyes … it’s like the sun surrounded by the ocean. God must have been inspired the day He created them.”
I feel my cheeks burn.
She laughs. “You don’t take compliments well.”
“Thank you?”
She laughs again then nods as she closes up aisle 10—her purse.
As she’s walking out the door, I tell her more genuinely, “Thank you.”
She smiles at me and nods.
“And Reda, someday, you’ll have to teach me how to make that chicken salad. It’s the best I’ve ever had.”
If I thought the bar was busy during the game, now it’s madness, and the team isn’t even here yet. I did overhear the overdressed, overly made-up group of girls mention they would be here soon as I mixed drinks, the kind girls prefer—cosmopolitans, Blue Hawaiians, daiquiris, and of course sex on the beach.
“I’m impressed, kid,” Lou says as I mix up a pink passion. “They ask me for that froo-froo shit, and I give them a glass of boxed wine with a cherry in it.”
“And you get five bucks a drink, Lou.” I laugh as I pass the drink across the bar to the blonde and tell her, “Ten dollars.”
I see Lou out of my peripheral and smile to myself when I see him smile.
“Hey,” a blond-haired, preppy man calls for my attention.